


Speak Easily

by rae1112



Series: Disunification [5]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 01:29:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8601856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rae1112/pseuds/rae1112
Summary: America and England have an awkward conversation with England’s boss.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place a short time after _The Italian Job_.

“You don’t seem to be very worried,” England sniffed, and America turned briefly to look at him. He was fussing with his cufflinks, a habit he’d developed, coincidentally, right after he’d given up smoking. America smiled wanly. Endearing man. 

“You’re going to have to forgive me,” he said languidly, “Your boss is little-league. Mine is the world-series.” He shuffled a bit in his seat, and noticed that England had gone into full arms-crossed-legs-crossed position, which likely did not bode well. 

“Oh, well, _that_ explains it,” England spat, “Of course your inflated sense of ego protects you. What happens then, dear, if my little-league boss were to disapprove? He barely managed to wrap his head around the _concept_ of the manifestation of all his patriotism having feelings independent of God and country! And as a matter of fact, he rather dislikes you!” 

“Does he?” America asked, desperately trying to quash the urge to lean over and cup England’s cheek. His...boyfrien-significan-partner- _whatever_ did not take kindly to America’s condescension. Though really, once again, England was mistaken. Condescension was the last thing on America’s mind. Embarrassingly, the more appropriate word was adoration. 

“I’ll make sure he likes me by the end of it,” America said, in what he hoped was a reassuring tone. From England’s responding snort, it seemed the Brit had taken it as an arrogant one. 

The two fell into silence, the only movement being England’s spindly fingers on his cufflinks. America wanted to leave. He had never felt less like the immortal powerful being he was supposed to be. Strangely, he felt quite a bit like what he imagined his citizens to feel when they were nineteen. He felt giddy, and excited, and he wanted to be alone with England, and he wanted to watch the puzzlement on England’s face when they watched their first episode of _Gormless_ together. 

He also wanted England to stop looking so worried. Worried didn’t suit him. Snobby did. Arrogant also often did, as well as furious. Excited, the few times America had seen him genuinely and _boundlessly_ excited, suited him in a way it did no one else…

America shook his head. He hated how sappy his own thoughts had become. _That_ didn’t suit _him_. 

It was particularly embarrassing, because while he waxed poetic about England’s fucking freckles in his head, he found out that, despite what the Brit claimed, the extent of England’s thoughts on America had extended not much further than _Bloody hell he’s gotten fit_ and _He’s stunning and can lift a lorry, surely I love him, right Scotland?_

“You don’t think he’d _really_ say no, do you?” England finally broke the silence. “I’ve been alright. Behavior-wise. Haven’t gotten into too much trouble. How are your finances?”

“Passable,” America said coolly. 

“Right,” England said, nodding to himself. He somehow looked even more worried, if possible. His skin looked rather clammy. America would comfort him, but he was sure England’s boss would not appreciate anyone walking in on that. Besides, despite the fact that he loved England quite deeply, it did not give the British man permission to so blithely bring up finances. Or economics. Or anything with numbers that made America’s head hurt these days. 

“It’s just,” England began again, because he clearly could not shut up when he was nervous (and when had that become a character trait of England’s? Prior to the twentieth century, England had never displayed any signs of nerves no matter what the situation. And yet, America found it endearing about him now. Human. Part of the new quintessential British spirit, as it were). “He’s been in a mood. Rather dodgy behavior. I’m not sure what it is -”

“Shouldn’t we be speaking to your queen about this, anyway?” America gracelessly interrupted, “I thought the agreement said we had to report to our heads-of-state.” 

“Oh, bugger, don’t bring that up now,” England moaned, “I’ve taken ‘head-of-state’ to mean leader, which my Prime Minister _is_. I’m tired of you lot banging on about how I don’t have a proper democracy.” 

America held his tongue. Clearly, England did not need any more winding up. 

“Okay!” he said instead, raising his hands in bemused surrender, “No more queen talk, got it. Now breathe, will you? Has he ever gotten in the way of your other trysts?” 

“That’s a rather old-fashioned word, not really part of _your_ normal nomenclature,” England said, then narrowed his eyes. “Have you been reading British literature?”

Damn England, anyway. “Look, are we going to sit around all day?” America said, quickly changing the subject. Like hell would England ever know that America read stupid Victorian romance novels when he was feeling particularly desperate to be closer to the Brit. “I’m not exactly someone with a lot of free time. I don’t see why your boss feels the need to waste it.”

“He may be avoiding us,” England said honestly, “It’s always...rather awkward when we have these discussions. I think he may prefer for me to keep these things to myself. But you know. Matter of national security, and all.” 

America didn’t say it, but the idea of England having any affect on America’s national security these days was laughable. The reverse was perhaps not as true. 

“Russia’s boss just has him file paperwork. Like an expense report.” America said conversationally, but did not miss the way England stiffened up.

“ _Does he?_ ” England hissed, and America really wanted to punch himself in the face, “How very _curious_.” 

America sighed. Of all the physical relationships he’d revealed, England seemed to have the biggest problem with Russia. He’d gotten very huffy and stiff back at the Parisian hotel they’d had this conversation in (the one they’d confessed in, and made love in, two slightly more consequential events). And here he was, doing so again. America wished he wouldn’t be so jealous - it was like that whole stint with Italy had taught England nothing. And besides, Russia had been very heavy and very inconsiderate. And when America had mortifyingly called England’s name in the middle of it, Russia had laughed so hard that he’d fallen off the bed and any sexual tension that may have been built up had immediately dissipated.

That story, however, was one America would keep to himself, even if it did have the potential to make England feel better. He had his pride, after all. 

“We’re sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Kirkland,” a young woman, with a prim-and-proper British tone, had appeared in the doorway of their cramped waiting room, “The Prime Minister will see you now.” 

“Right.” England was still tense, probably from nerves, and partially from misplaced jealousy. But America was hapless, really, because the adoration he felt for England had not lessened in the slightest. “Took his bloody time, then, did he?”

The young woman smiled mysteriously. England stormed past her, and America followed after him, making sure to smile charmingly in her direction. She immediately flushed and looked at her feet, like so many of England’s people did when America tried to charm them. The younger nation grinned - this would be a piece of cake. 

He followed England down a winding, chilly hall. They were not at Number 10 Downing Street, as America had imagined they would be, but in some unassuming office building near the river Thames. England had bitched their whole commute that it was an intolerable state of events, that he should not have to adhere to his boss’ schedule, but had gone mysteriously silent when America had asked him what urgent business he had to take care of that prevented him from working around his boss’ work events.

But then again, England was used to his bosses being more than slightly enamored with him. America’s bosses, ironically enough, had taught him to respect the chain of command. They would be patriotic when there was time for that, damn it. 

They’d finally arrived, if England’s slowed pace was anything to judge by. It looked to be a regular conference room, and England looked to be on the verge of knocking. 

“Oh, come now,” America said, succumbing once more to British linguistic influences. He pushed the wideset door open, striding in with what he hoped was humble confidence (and no, the oxymoron never did strike him). 

England’s - technically, the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland’s - boss was rapidly typing away on a laptop. He was also very determinedly not looking at them. 

“Sorry about that boys,” he said in that bullish tone all of England’s Tory Prime Minister’s seemed to have, “Busy day and all. Don’t mean to keep you waiting. Biscuit?” 

How, oh how, could America have missed the tea set sitting innocently on the other end of the table?

“You’re too kind, sir,” England said evenly, his personality all but disappearing under the veneer of British politeness. America rolled his eyes. They would be here all day discussing the weather (“dreadful bit of rain, isn’t it?” had been the first thing England had said to America after they’d slept together) if these two had anything to say about it. 

“Unfortunately we don’t have much time, sir,” America announced brashly, “I’ve got some business at the embassy.” 

“Of course, of course,” England’s boss acknowledged. He continued to take his sweet time pouring that tea, however, clearly not used to doing so himself. “What did we have to discuss so urgently, England?”

He held out a cup of hot leaf water in England’s direction, and England gratefully strode over and took it. He sat down, and thankfully, armed with a cup of scalding liquid, ceased to play with his cufflinks. America followed his cue and sat down as well. 

“I’m afraid it’s, er, of a rather delicate nature.” England said, blushing like an eighteenth-century virgin. America nearly groaned. He wasn’t sure where England’s prudishness came from - it was only a stereotype that all British people were repressed. Hell, last time America had been in San Diego, he’d caught sight of a British couple ‘snogging’ in a manner completely inappropriate for the beach. He would have called the cops on them if it didn’t make him feel like such an old fuddy-duddy. 

“Ah.” England’s boss said simply, now looking between the two of them. 

This was going nowhere. Clearly it was America’s turn to speak. 

“England and I have decided to start seeing each other,” he said, taking a biscu - goddamn it, a _cookie_ \- from the accursed tea set. “We’re, uh. Going to date. See each other. It’s not going to be a one time thing.” 

England looked, for some reason, mortified. And his boss, oddly delighted. 

“You’re going to be dating the United States?” England’s boss asked, and America cringed. Hard. He _hated_ being called the United States. “Blimey, England. Moving up in the world.” 

At that, America raised an eyebrow. It seemed England had been worrying for the entirely wrong reason. America glanced quickly at England’s face, and was amused to find his boyfriend flushing rather unattractively. 

“W-what d’you mean?” England laughed nervously, and America was almost floored by how stupidly cute he sounded. “It doesn’t work like that, Prime Minister…” 

“Sure it does,” the prime minister said, shrugging. “You’re both personifications of our nation-states, correct? I’m assuming your courtship is some blithe metaphor for stimulating the economy.” 

“ _What?_ ” England nearly hissed, while America was torn between laughing uproariously and hitting the prime minister for implying his feelings towards England were the result of some benign economic measure. 

The prime minister was frowning at their reaction. “Well, isn’t that how it works?” he asked inquisitively, “The last one-night stand you had, England, saw a spike in trade between us and the Spanish.” 

“The _Spanish?_ ” This was news to America. England gulped somewhat guiltily, but did not elaborate. 

“ _Coincidence,_ ” he emphatically said instead, “This won’t be like that. The only benefit of my dating America is you’ll get to see me marginally happier.” 

The prime minister chuckled, then looked back at his laptop screen. 

“You, less beastly in the mornings? I’ll take it.” 

\-------

“He barely even spoke to me,” America said, pouting. They’d left soon after that, finding that they did not need to explain too many details of their newfound relationship to England’s boss. Thankfully, they’d gotten his blessing without fuss. His comments, however, had riled England up, so they’d had to stop by some coffee shop to buy even _more_ tea to calm him down. Now, with a warm Costa styrofoam cup at hand, England was acting slightly more forgiving. 

“What did you expect him to say?” England shrugged. “You can be rather intimidating when you want to be, America.” 

America grinned. “Intimidating, huh?” 

England rolled his eyes. “Not to me, you’re not,” he clarified, “You’re a git with a penchant for war, nothing more.” 

“Rude!” America said, in the same tone England would proclaim _cheeky_. Snarky, non-nervous England was back, thankfully. Feeling bold, America snaked his hand around England’s waist and settled his palm somewhere on his hip. To his eternal surprise, after a beat of hesitation England mirrored his action. They looked quite couple-y, America imagined. And England looked somewhat flushed, but the attractive kind once more. 

“Besides,” England said after a comfortable silence, “at least he addressed you. I wager your boss won’t even acknowledge me.”

“Oh, come on,” America said, “It’s not like you’re Serbia or something! You’re powerful in your own right!” 

Serbia had a mean right hook, and America was actually grateful he wasn’t here to defend his honor. 

England shrugged, almost displacing America’s hand from his side. “Not powerful enough. I imagine he’d prefer someone like China, for you. Or Russia.”

“The day one of my bosses prefers Russia over you is the day pigs fly.” America said nonchalantly. Then, remembering England’s penchant for believing in strange creatures having the ability to fly, he backtracked. “Look England, it’s just a formality. All of this is. It doesn’t matter whether he likes you or not. _I_ like you, that’s kind of all that matters.”

England seemed mollified. He finally smiled, his eyes crinkling slightly. “My, my, like me, do you?” 

“You’re so embarrassing,” America huffed, pulling England closer.

**Author's Note:**

> This may be the most boring thing I've ever written, and yet I am quite fond of it. 
> 
> A few notes:  
> Yes, Spamano is not the most hunky-dory relationship in this universe. Spain's eyes occasionally wander, and he and Romano have had to work through that. It was an extensive process. 
> 
> I debated even tagging the America/Russia, since it was so minor. They had an un-sexy arrangement of convenience. 
> 
> I will elaborate (a little) more on what happened with Germany/Italy, I promise! 
> 
> America's boss is not as laid back as England's. England briefly takes up smoking again after meeting him.


End file.
